Page 69 of One Bed

How the hell did she come back from this?

Gib’s hand on her shoulder gently shaking her forced her to look at him. ‘Stop biting your lip, Bea, it’s bleeding.’

She swiped the back of her hand across her lip, and looked down, seeing the blood smear on her hand.

‘What’s happened?’ Gib demanded, his eyes darting from her face to the laptop screen. ‘Has someone died? What’s the problem?’

She shook her head, wanting to double over from the cramps knotting her stomach. Acid flared and crept up her throat.

‘Bea!What?’

Was Gib starting to panic? She looked at him, feeling a million miles away. ‘My editor hates my book and wants me to rewrite it. To start again.’

His taut body slumped, and he released a long, audible stream of air. ‘OK. I thought it was something really bad.’

He did not say that! Nofuckingway. ‘This is the worst thing that can happen to me. I have torewritea book. What part of that do you not understand?’ she yelled, sounding like the shrew he’d accused her of being when they first met. ‘I messed up so badly that none of my work is redeemable, Gib! Nothing! What kind of writer does that make me?’

‘A normal one? Surely everyone messes up, Bea.’

‘Not on a scale like this, they don’t!’ she retorted, furious because he wasn’t getting it. This might not be career suicide, but it was a self-inflicted wound. ‘Merle must think I’m a total idiot, like I’ve lost my mind or something.’

Bea paced, her arms hugging her chest. The problem with talking to non-authors about your industry was that they just didn’t get it. They didn’t understand that writing a book was like birthing a baby, and then holding it up to the world and asking whether your kid was pretty. As much as she tried to keep it impersonal, to divorce herself from her writing, she couldn’t because her characters were a part of her, ripped from her soul. How could you not take criticism personally when writing was all you knew how to do, what you loved?

She didn’t like criticism at the best of times, it always made her feel like she wasn’t doing enough, being enough, adult enough, but criticism from her editor killed her. And being asked to rewrite a book was criticism on steroids.

* * *

Gib sighed, pushed his hand through his hair and guessed that sex was now off the table.

He caught the glitter of tears, and the depth of her pain in her eyes. Her quick-to-smile mouth was tight with tension, and her shoulders were up around her ears. Right, this was a lot more serious than he thought. Her world had been rocked, and he wanted to understand how and why.

This from the guy who never asked questions, who kept a hefty emotional distance between himself and the women he slept with. But Bea wasn’t just another woman, she was someone who’d slid under his skin, who’d breached a wall, maybe two. She was dangerous…

He knew he needed to find the willpower to walk away from her before whatever the hell was bubbling between them spilled over and scorched them.

But that was for later. Right now he needed to work out how to handle, and comfort, Bea. Because, God, she needed it. Taking a chance, he walked over to her and pulled her into him, criss-crossing his big arms over her back and plastering her to his chest. She stood board still, her arms at her sides, refusing to engage.

That was OK, she just needed to know he was here for her.

‘I’ve got you, Bea-baby,’ he murmured, his lips in her hair.

Bea slumped and he held her up as her hands lifted to grip his shirt. When a wet patch of his shirt stuck to his chest, he realised she was silently sobbing. Not knowing what to do, or say, he pushed his fingers into her hair and cradled her head to his chest. If crying would release some of her tension, he was all for it.

She’d cried a little the other day, but this time she cried noiselessly, endlessly, and every intake of breath sounded painful. He didn’t understand how an email could cause so much hurt. Because these weren’t ordinary tears, the normal ups and downs of a professional relationship. This was visceral, a hurt that sliced through muscle and chipped bones, that ripped apart lives and scorched souls.

‘Can you talk about it?’ he asked, after five minutes had passed.

She shook her head, her refusal unsurprising. Some things went too deep for conversation. Stepping back from her, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs before placing his lips on her hot forehead. Remembering what she’d said about her childhood, how she hated criticism, he thought she might need a little perspective.

‘How long has this Merle person been an editor?’ Gib asked, stepping away from her.

She threw her hands up in the air, annoyed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Anger was acceptable, it was far better than despair. Or self-pity. Anger was alive and active, and healthier.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Humour me.’

‘I’m having a crisis and you’re asking me inane questions? I don’t know … fifteen … seventeen years? Can we go back to what’s important?’ she snarled. ‘FYI, that’s my incipient nervous breakdown.’

He ignored her statement. She was a lot stronger than she thought and needed to be reminded of that. ‘And in all that time, after editing hundreds and hundreds of books, do you think you’re the first person Merle has asked to rewrite one?’

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